


Three Times 'Cause You Waited Your Whole Life

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bellarke Bingo, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends With Benefits, I got bingo!, Yuh huh you read that right BOTH OF EM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23949559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: At some point, he is convinced this is all going to blow up in his face.Because the last thing Bellamy expects at his sister's wedding is to be fake dating his roommate to placate that same sister, but he's also hooking up with his roommate, and he doesn't think anyone knows that, and hooking up is a terrible string of words. He'll definitely come up with a better string of words eventually. Maybe after the explosion.Or once he tells Clarke that he's head over heels in love with her. He should probably do that eventually.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 12
Kudos: 210





	Three Times 'Cause You Waited Your Whole Life

“This is hands down the dumbest thing you’ve ever asked me to do.”  
  
Octavia levels him with a very specific type of stare — that even-keeled, no-blinking thing that usually gets Bellamy to do whatever she wants, which, well, he was probably going to do it anyway, but he’s still got to talk to Clarke and the least he can do is pretend to be annoyed by the overall harebrained nature of this latest scheme. 

“Seriously,” he continues, “at least in the top five.”  
  
Octavia doesn’t move. 

She doesn’t blink. 

He’s not even entirely sure she’s breathing. 

But then her right eyebrow arches and her head tilts half an inch and he sighs. It’s a failure. Or at least some loss of metaphorical points because he’s admitted something even without saying anything and maybe this is more a commentary on his relationship with his little sister and not—

No.

That’s a dangerous path. 

A dumb one, even. 

“Why is it dumb, exactly?” Octavia challenges. “It’s not like you’re bringing a date.”

“Clarke is my date.”  
  
“Think about those words in that specific order for, like, at least the next twenty-seven seconds.”   
  
“You want to time me or what?”   
  
Her left eyebrow joints the right, gaze turning appraising and decidedly judgmental and Bellamy does his best not to sigh again. He’s not sure there’s actually enough oxygen left in his lungs. 

And those words in that specific order are...a lie. Mostly. 

Bellamy and Clarke aren’t dating. They’re—he’s not quite able to come up with a word that properly describes what they are, actually. More like friends. And roommates. And they’re really good at making out every couple of weeks. 

Across a variety of surfaces in their apartment. 

His bed’s become a recent favorite. Trails of clothes left behind them in the hallway and that scuff on the baseboard is absolutely from his shoe three weeks ago when he’d got to the go-ahead from his editor to start research for a new book, and maybe last time he’d woken up before Clarke only to almost immediately let himself fall asleep again because she was warm and comfortable and the smell of her shampoo is practically ingrained on every single particle of his pillowcase now, but that’s neither here nor there because Bellamy is not an idiot. 

They’re not— _whatever_. They’re friends. Best friends, even. 

Clarke is absolutely his best friend. 

And so what if he’s something in the realm of vaguely obsessed with the sound she makes when his teeth graze her collarbone? That’s—friendly. God, he can’t even make it sound reasonable in his head. 

The first time Bellamy Blake kissed Clarke Griffin she tasted a bit like stale whiskey and she swayed a bit when she moved into his space. It wasn’t how he wanted it. He wanted sweeping romance and possible declarations, something about _waiting forever for this_ , and that might be exactly why Bellamy let it happen. 

His fingers flew into her hair — as much to steady himself as her, and it wasn’t the greatest first kiss in the history of the world, but it was far from the worst and she sighed against him as soon as his tongue found her lower lip. They were already in their apartment, so there wasn’t much ground to cover while they stumbled towards her room, tugging on clothes and trying desperately to keep their balance. The mattress noticeably creaked as soon as they fell on it, a tangle of limbs and laughter and when he lets himself think back on that moment that’s always the thing Bellamy lingers on. 

The laughter. The smiles. The easy way it was to brush her hair away from her face, trailing kisses along her jaw and the side of her neck until her hips canted up and she mumbled “c’mon, hurry up, Bell,” in his ear. 

He might think about that particular string of words a lot too. 

But then it was over and they were breathing heavily, limbs no longer tangled, but splayed out over the side of the bed while they tried to come back to Earth. Maybe that had been him. 

“You think that was the dumbest thing we’ve ever done?” Clarke had asked, soft and nervous and for a moment Bellamy had let himself imagine. Everything he’d wanted since he’d been sixteen and she was the girl in the big house at the top of the hill in Arkadia and he was certain he was going to say something, profound and meaningful and—

_Nothing about you or us or the collective possibility of both those things could ever be dumb_ dies on the tip of his tongue. 

“Bell,” Clarke whispered. “That’s...we probably shouldn’t have done that, huh?”

He nodded. “Yeah, probably not.”  
  
Neither one of them are particularly good at following that rule. Even unspoken as it was. They have relationships and dates and he’s not really a big fan of anyone Clarke has either one of those things with, but that’s fine. It doesn’t matter. Because there are still kisses and tangled limbs and it doesn’t happen all the time, just occasional shared glances and smiles that turn into dark corners and leaving early, and it’s enough to take up significant space in Bellamy’s brain. He always takes a certain amount of pride in getting her to laugh. 

Particularly when he kisses that one spot just behind her left ear. 

They’re really exceptionally good at kissing. 

Each other, specifically.

And falling in love with his best friend turned roommate, turned more-than-occasional fuck buddy might actually be the dumbest thing Bellamy has ever done. 

He can’t let Octavia know that. 

He’s not altogether convinced Octavia doesn’t know that already.  
  
It’s a miracle he’s not just broadcasting it at all times. 

Except he’d come up with an adjective better than fuck buddy.   
  
Which is, in fact, two words. 

“Please stop staring at me,” Bellamy sighs, realizing belatedly that his fingers are tugging on the hair nape of his neck and that particular shift of Octavia’s expression is almost offensive in its ability to look all-knowing and mocking at the same time. 

“I need you to do this.”  
  
“Did you ask Clarke?”   
  
“I’m asking you.”   
  
“Ok, but that’s not an answer,” Bellamy argues. He can’t decide if he wants Octavia to sit down. She’s far more imposing when she’s standing there, particularly when he’s also slumped in the corner of the couch, like the weight of his secrets and feelings and secret-type feelings are pushing down on his shoulders. 

She crosses her arms. That’s definitely worse. 

“Yes, obviously I asked Clarke,” Octavia snaps. “And she was—”  
  
“—What?”   
  
Her eyebrows can’t possibly get higher. And yet. They all but disappear into her hairline, the overall circumference of her eyes making Bellamy’s breath hitch. Octavia clicks her teeth exactly seven times. It’s absurd. 

“Huh,” she muses. “And where is Clarke right now, exactly?”  
  
“Saving lives, probably.”   
  
“Huh.”   
  
“Octavia.”   
  
“What?” she shrugs, which can’t possibly be comfortable when her arms are still twisted into some kind of pretzel-like formation and Bellamy’s sixty-two percent positive the light in the apartment is glinting off her ring on principle. To drive him insane. “Obviously Clarke thought it was weird and—” Another shrug, complete with ridiculous expression and her tongue sticking out of her mouth. “—Y’know, maybe it is kind of weird.”   
  
“Kind of weird?”   
  
“This is not my fault!”   
  
“How do you figure, exactly?”   
  
“Be less couple’y with your roommate,” Octavia cries. She stomps her foot. Maybe Bellamy isn’t losing anymore. “Ok, I refuse to accept responsibility for this—”   
  
“—What a change of pace that is for you.”   
  
She flips him off. Bellamy rolls his eyes   
  
“Lincoln’s family is...I don’t know, traditional or something. And it’s already difficult for them to wrap their mind around us, so—”   
  
“—What is there to wrap there?” Bellamy interrupts. 

“Traditional family values are apparently very important on that side of the wedding seating arrangement and our distinct lack of parental support weirds them out.”  
  
“Is that an insult to me or you?”   
  
Shrug number three is nothing more than a brush off from the opinions of prospective in-laws and Bellamy knows Octavia’s not actually all that upset. Because they really did try their best and it hadn’t always been perfect, couldn’t possibly be when a twenty-year-old was suddenly responsible for his sister and their collective livelihood, but Clarke had helped and the Griffins had helped and Octavia’s not some kind of mass-murderer or anything except a little determined to get what she wants during her own wedding, which Bellamy thinks is pretty fair all things considered. 

“I don’t think they’re trying to be insulting,” Octavia reasons. “And they haven’t actually said any of this to my face.”  
  
“That’s definitely worse,” Clarke calls, the front door slamming shut behind her and something that might be several boulders, or her bag, falling to the floor.   
  
Bellamy sits up straighter.   
  
Octavia definitely rolls her eyes. 

“Trust me,” Clarke adds, and she sounds exhausted. She’s been working extra hours recently, picking up more shifts at the hospital to make up for the weekend she’s taking off for Octavia’s wedding and Bellamy has been quick to point out that’s probably not how it’s supposed to work, but she’s definitely more stubborn than both him and his sister put together and he admittedly gets a little lightheaded when he thinks about her inherent goodness. 

Like as a person. And doctor. 

She twists around a somehow-still-standing Octavia, falling into the far corner of the couch with a huff and for half a second Bellamy is disappointed. And then she moves, tugging her hair to the side so she can rest her cheek on his leg. 

His fingers find her hair almost immediately. 

They’re going to have to find a different doctor to perform surgery on Octavia’s eyebrows. 

What with their apparent ability to stay frozen in this one, particular position. 

“It does kind of suck that they’re talking trash,” Bellamy reasons. 

Clarke’s body shakes when she laughs, turning her head to try and mask the sound. Directly into his leg. Maybe the doctor will be for Bellamy. 

And the shock he appears to be dealing with. 

“Did you tell her you’d do this stupid thing?” he asks, but Clarke doesn’t move her head, just makes another noise. 

“That’s a yes,” Octavia says. 

“Is it?”  
  
Clarke hums, tilting her head up so her chin is digging into Bellamy. He barely notices — not when her nose scrunches and her eyes go that particular shade of blue and he’s never wanted his sister to leave more in his entire life. 

Which really is saying something, honestly. 

“It’s not like we’re bringing dates,” Clarke says. “And if it can help O impress the stuffy in-laws, then it seems kind of nice.”  
  
“Would we call them stuffy?”   
  
“Have you met that one aunt? Indra. She kind of...freaks me out.”   
  
“You?”   
  
“God, don’t say it like that. It’s insulting.”   
  
“No,” Octavia objects. “Insulting is how you guys are not, one, jumping at the opportunity to—”   
  
“—Fake date?” Bellamy suggests. It’s definitely shock. Whatever’s happening in the general vicinity of his heart, a stall and a stutter, the sound of his pulse thudding in his ears and he hopes Clarke can’t hear that. 

Her eyes keep fluttering shut. 

“I never once said it was fake dating,” Octavia objects. “That implies longevity.”  
  
“Good word,” Clarke mumbles. Her eyes are completely closed now. And Bellamy hasn’t moved his fingers out of her hair, tracing absent-minded patterns across her temple and the back of her neck like there are magnets involved. 

Or—

It might be better if he just melts into the couch. 

“See,” Octavia presses, “this is why I talked to Clarke about it first. I knew she wouldn’t be a giant stupid weirdo.”  
  
“She’s just exhausted,” Bellamy argues. “I don’t think the words are entirely processing.” Clarke pinches his thigh. “Ah, shit, stop that.”   
  
“Don’t be a dick, then,” she counters. 

Octavia huffs. “It is one night! Not even a full night! It’s not like Lincoln and I are going to want to stay at the reception forever.”  
  
“Oh God,” Bellamy groans. “Can we just bypass that part completely?”   
  
“Shut up. The point is Lincoln’s family thinks you’re already dating. They know you two live together and that means—”   
  
“—Neither one of us is capable of paying for a two-bedroom apartment on our own?”   
  
“I will murder you in your sleep, I swear to God.”   
  
Octavia stares at him again and Bellamy does his best not to blink under the force of her gaze. It works for about thirteen seconds. But then he’s the one huffing and sighing and it’s overly emotional and decidedly dramatic, but he’s pretty positive Clarke has already fallen asleep and he can’t quite come to terms with Lincoln’s family thinking they’re dating. 

As if that’s even an option. 

He’d like it to—

No. 

Dangerous path, part two. 

“They think you’re dating,” Octavia says. “And it would just be easier if, for like a solid sixteen hours on the day of my wedding, _my wedding day_ —”   
  
“—Do you think she practiced this?” Clarke mumbles. 

Bellamy bites the inside of his lip. So he doesn’t grin like an idiot. Or kiss the top of Clarke’s hair. 

Octavia rolls her whole head. “Neither one of you is bringing a date! You’re coming together! You live together! Honestly, if I didn’t know both you, it wouldn’t be an unreasonable assumption that you were already stupid in love. So, just—” She sighs. “Do this one thing for me. You don’t even really have to pretend. Just...you know, if Indra asks then you say yes, of course we’re dating and a real-life couple.”  
  
“You want us to use that exact phrasing, then?” Clarke asks. She flips her head up, hair moving in the process and Bellamy does his best not to breathe. 

For fear of smelling her shampoo. 

He’s the world’s creepiest roommate and fake boyfriend. 

“I want you to act the way you always act, but possibly with more kissing,” Octavia says, “and if anyone wants to know your backstory, have something possibly feasible and passably romantic and then as soon as Lincoln and I leave you guys can go back to what you normally do.”

Clarke tenses, Bellamy’s tongue flashing between his lips on something close to instinct because he’d started breathing through his mouth at some point and Octavia is preoccupied enough that she doesn’t notice either thing. 

That’s probably a blessing of some kind. 

Or so Bellamy will tell himself on loop for the rest of the night. 

“So?” Octavia asks. “Are you guys good? You’re going to tell any of Lincoln’s family that yes, in fact, you are dating because, yes, in fact you do live together and it’s because you’re stupid in love with each other.”  
  
“That’s kind of wordy,” Bellamy points out. 

Clarke snickers, any of the tension falling off her and moving directly into the space between every one of Bellamy’s ribs as soon as she buries her face in his stomach. 

He smirks. 

Octavia groans. “Yes or no answer!”  
  
“I already told her it would be fine,” Clarke says, and she probably doesn’t mean to move her head that way. It’s dangerously close to nuzzling. They don’t nuzzle. There is no nuzzling in the land of best-friend fuck buddies. 

He’s got to come up with a different descriptor. 

“Bell?” Octavia prompts. “It’s just—”  
  
“—Yeah,” he bites out, not entirely appreciating just how gruff his voice manages to go over those four letters. “That’s fine.”

It is not fine.   
  
It is as far away from fine as anything is capable of being. 

Bellamy is not surprised. Disappointed, but surprised. Which also makes him something of an asshole. Because the wedding is close to beautiful and in the realm of perfect, Octavia’s arm looped through his on the walk down the aisle and her eyes fall closed as soon as she kisses her cheek. 

There are vows and words, promises and guarantees and then another kiss and it’s over, far faster than Bellamy expected it to be and—

“You cried.”

Bellamy glances down, a different arm twisted around his, Clarke’s fingers fluttering against the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. “I did not.”  
  
“Please, if you blinked anymore, you would have set some kind of record.”   
  
“For blinking?”   
  
“In emotionally charged moments where you have to play brother and both parents and has anyone told you that you look pretty goddamn fantastic in this suit?”   
  
He scoffs, mostly to cover up the rush of heat he can feel in his cheeks. “It’s a tuxedo, technically.”   
  
“Oh, right, right, right,” Clarke grins, and most of the no-good, terrible awful things at this wedding circle directly around the exact color of her dress. And how good she looks in it. The contradictions are starting to make his head hurt a little bit. “Well, my point still stands. You clean up good, Bell.”   
  
“Thanks, Princess. You don’t look half bad yourself.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” he echoes, and it kind of feels like every inch of him is on fire now. It’s not quite as bad as he figured it would be. Almost pleasant, even. Clarke’s fingers haven’t stopped moving. “And I refuse to admit one way or another whether or not I cried.”   
  
“That sounds like an admission.”   
  
“You are not a lawyer.”   
  
“That’s true,” Clarke concedes. They’re at the end of the aisle, Bellamy remembering dim instructions from the rehearsal dinner about moving into the hall and a receiving line, but his feet don’t seem all that inclined to move. 

Instead, he turns slightly, putting himself between Clarke and the small horde of people around them, eyes tracing over her face like he’s looking for something in particular and that’s not entirely untrue. More contradictions. 

He really may be the world’s biggest idiot. 

“You know,” Clarke continues, before Bellamy can make a complete fool of himself, “this kind of reminds me of prom.”  
  
He tilts his head — memories flying to the front of his brain and the pit of his stomach, making him laugh and smile and it’s probably not possible for Clarke’s eyes to actually sparkle. Or get bluer. In accordance with her dress. 

Her dress is very blue.

“If I remember correctly, neither one of us really wanted to go to prom and only went together because Octavia kept pouting at the idea that she’d have to go alone with her date.”  
  
“How do you still have feelings about Atom?” Clarke laughs.   
  
“I’m very good at holding a grudge. And that kid was an idiot. You remember how he tried to sneak into our house that one time and fell out of the tree?”   
  
“Well, it had rained.”   
  
“Why are you defending this kid?”   
  
“He’s in his late twenties now, you realize that, right?” Clarke grins, and Bellamy cannot roll his eyes quickly enough. “Plus, prom wasn’t that bad. We got to hang out.”   
  
“You say that like we didn’t hang out all the time growing up. The only thing that was different about prom was us trying to drink out of that stupid flask—”   
  
“—Oh, c’mon, it wasn’t stupid,” Clarke argues. “It was very discreet.”   
  
Bellamy nods solemnly, but he can’t quite stop the smile from tugging at the ends of his mouth. “Sure, sure, it was. We nearly broke the bag you brought.”   
  
“The technical term is a clutch.”   
  
“You called my tuxedo a suit five seconds ago.”   
  
She rolls her eyes — which isn’t the most endearing thing she does, it’s definitely the nose scrunch, but it’s also pretty high up the list Bellamy absolutely, positively has not made in the last decade or so. That would be insane. 

He’s not insane. 

Pining, maybe. But not insane. 

And her prom dress had been blue too. 

“Fair,” Clarke admits. “You have to admit though, we had fun. Even when we absolutely broke my clutch.”  
  
“Did we break it?”   
  
She hums, lips tugged back behind her teeth. “I had to sneak the flask in in my dress. You kept my phone in your pocket all night because I didn’t have anywhere else to put it. Do you honestly not remember that?”

Bellamy shrugs — mostly because it’d probably freak her out to shout _I remember everything_ directly in her face. At the very least it would annoy Octavia. They’re probably supposed to be taking pictures now. “Do you think that counts as our first date?”

He’s not drunk yet, so there’s really no excuse for that question or the exact way it seems to fly out of him. But it’s also pretty goddamn honest and Bellamy’s going to blame Clarke’s dress, for like—the rest of time, maybe. 

To her credit, Clarke doesn’t miss a beat. She smiles and laughs, soft and just as honest as his question, tip-toeing around something that is really much closer to everything than either one of them would be willing to admit. 

“Yeah,” she nods. “I guess it might be. High-school sweethearts, huh? Is that the story we’re going with? We never really did decide.”

Oh. 

_Oh_. 

Oh, well fuck.

Goddamn, fuck, shit, screw it all to hell. That last one is admittedly pretty lame. 

“Yeah,” Bellamy says, careful to keep his voice even. “That was probably shit planning on our part? You think someone’s going to ask when we started dating?”  
  
“Better safe than sorry, right?”   
  
“Something like that, I’m sure. But, uh—yeah, yeah, that’s—” He’s stammering. And Clarke is biting her lower lip. He should probably stop staring at her lower lip. “Ok. So did I ask you to prom or—”   
  
“—You legitimately asked me to prom, idiot,” Clarke cuts in, and just like that it’s normal and fine and he’s still almost painfully in love with her, but that’s pretty much just his natural state of being at this point.

So. 

Whatever, it’s fine. 

“Maybe we leave out the flask-breaking anecdote, though. I doubt intimidating-Indra would be all that interested.”  
  
“Good alliteration.”

“Well, I aim to please on a date of this caliber. Did we date the entire time post-prom?”  
  
Clarke clicks her tongue, and she doesn’t have to push up like she normally would to fix his tie. It makes his breath catch all the same. “Obviously not. That’s unreasonable. We dated in high school, broke up, dated some other people in college, stayed friends—”   
  
“—I'm not seeing much in the area of a fake part yet, princess.”

She scowls, but there are definite spots of color on _her_ cheeks now and they’ve got to get out of this vestibule, waiting area, _thing_. He’s not sure if there’s a proper name for it. “Stayed friends,” Clarke repeats, “no matter what, because we’re very important to each other and didn’t want to mess things up and—” The deep breath she takes doesn’t sound like it does much to help, practically hissed in between her suddenly gritted teeth. “And then...you know, we just kind of drifted back together and it was easy and normal and—”  
  
“—Inevitable?” Bellamy finishes. 

His voice has gone very soft. It’s also very lame. 

Clarke nods slowly, as if she can’t move any faster and that’s probably not important. “Just...like it was supposed to be or something. And, for the record, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten the taste of that two-dollar scotch out of my mouth.”

“That scotch definitely cost me more than two dollars.”  
  
She laughs — not the one that comes with squeaking mattress springs, or even after several glasses of questionably under-priced scotch. It’s soft and simple and at some point in that last decade or so, Bellamy’s started to realize it only ever really happens when he’s around. 

He might be clinging to that. 

With both hands. 

“You cried too,” he accuses, tapping a finger on Clarke’s cheek. 

She snaps her teeth. “Obviously I cried. It was—whatever, people are supposed to cry at weddings. There’s romance and—”  
  
“—Presumably alcohol that won’t leave a shitty taste in your mouth ten years later.”   
  
“You’d know, you paid for most of it.”   
  
He winks. He’s not sure it works all that well when Clarke laughs again. Giggles, maybe. He’s going to make sure the open bar was money well spent. “I did,” Bellamy nods, but he’s also drifting forward without really meaning to and Clarke’s lower lip finds its way back between her teeth. He’s definitely still staring at her lips. 

Especially when she starts moving too, a slight shift of her chest when she takes another breath, head at an angle and lips finally parting and—

“Guys,” Miller snaps, leaning around the open doorway that leads to the hall they should have been in five minutes ago. “The point of pictures is to have the People of Honor in them.”  
  
Bellamy closes his eyes. Not on purpose. Possibly in mourning.

That’s not an appropriate emotion for a wedding. 

He’d totally cried. 

And Clarke very likely doesn’t shake her head the way he totally imagines she does — because that would mean something and friends with benefits don’t mean anything, even when they’re on a fake date that they would have gone on anyway even if Octavia hadn’t said anything. Or married into a family that is seemingly crazier than her own. 

“I don’t think that’s the term for it,” Clarke objects. “Plus, I was definitely winning on the whole being important to the wedding party front. I got to stand at the fake altar from the get.”  
  
Miller chuckles. “Call it a fake altar in front of O, please.”   
  
“And get beat up with her bouquet? Pass.”   
  
“The only reason you were up there was because I had to do aisle-walking things,” Bellamy says, moving back to Clarke’s side so he can catch her fingers with his. She grins. 

Miller groans.   
  
“I don’t care what labels you want to give yourselves! As long as you get in here and stand next to each other and take the pictures, so we can get to the drinking. Monty’s already started talking about mixes and possibilities, so—”   
  
“—We’re all going to die of alcohol poisoning?” Bellamy finishes. 

“But, you know, in a fun way.”  
  
“Well, yeah, of course.”

There’s another set of footsteps coming towards them and a body suddenly draped over Miller’s and Jasper looks like he’s had his fair share of mixed drinks already. Clarke’s head moves to Bellamy’s shoulder. 

“Seriously,” Jasper shouts, “what the hell are you guys doing out here? Because—” He ducks under Miller’s arm, ignoring the string of curses that gets. “—The crazy family is going to start murmuring about your absence and what you might be doing in dark corners, so unless you want to ruin everything it’s time to get your fake on.”  
  
“Did Octavia tell everyone?” Clarke asks. 

“Eh, important parties. So we didn’t say anything stupid and ruin it. That’s a verbatim quote.”  
  
“Yuh huh? And were you the only perspective ruiner?”   
  
“Not English,” Bellamy mumbles, but she’s never actually pulled her fingers away from him and he can’t help his smile when she squeezes his hand. 

“C’mon,” Clarke sighs, “the sooner we smile, the sooner we can drink very expensive scotch.”

Naturally it takes longer than that, but Bellamy’s fingers dance up Clarke’s side when she starts to slump a bit — posed and directed and she rolls her shoulders more than once, leaning back against his chest like it’s the most casual thing in the world. 

Normal, that’s what she said. 

Normal and easy and—

He kisses behind her ear before he can come up with the several thousand reasons he shouldn’t, Clarke’s soft gasp barely loud enough even for him to hear and she’s practically standing on his left shoe. Her head falls back, probably ruining the shot, but he’s willing to argue that it’s worth it and several other positive adjectives, especially when Clarke’s hand flattens on his thigh and neither one of them say anything. 

So they’re probably the dumbest people alive. 

Bellamy can’t remember the last time he did that. Just kissed her. Simply because he wanted to and could and that’s actually a rather enormous lie. Because it’s never happened. He wishes it had, but every kiss usually comes from those discarded clothes and greedy hands, something about _boiling over_ or _scratching an itch_ , which are also God awful phases, but they’ve never actually come up with rules for any of this and he might be spiraling. 

“What do you want to drink?” Clarke asks, brusque and sudden and she nearly falls over when she spins around. Bellamy’s hand tightens on her hip. 

“Scotch,” he says, practically barking out the word. “Just—scotch.”  
  
Clarke nods once, a mumbled _yeah, ok_ before she’s gone and he’s still standing there, avoiding the stares of his friends. All of whom look very pleased with themselves. 

“Shut up,” Bellamy grumbles. 

Monty holds his hands up. Well, one hand. The other one is curled around Harper’s shoulder. “We said absolutely no words.”  
  
“Yeah, you didn’t really have to.”   
  
“Huh, I wonder why that is.”

“Do not be an ass about this, Green.”  
  
“How could I possibly do that?”   
  
Bellamy doesn’t bother to answer, just glares and that works about as well as he thought it would, but the photos are done and they’ve got a whole schedule of things they have to do and it’s definitely easier to be less annoyed when he’s sitting next to Clarke. 

Plus the two glasses of scotch he drinks. 

But mostly Clarke. 

And they have fun. He was never really worried they wouldn’t, but it’s nice to have the assumption confirmed. They drink and eat and then drink a bit more, letting Monty experiment as much as he wants because _it’s a celebration, Bell_ and he’s fairly certain he’s not imagining how much closer he and Clarke keep getting. 

Bumping shoulders and Bellamy’s hand on the small of her back when they have to stand up and give speeches. Easy smiles and that same sense of normal it’s always been. For as long as he can remember it. 

“Clarke’s speech was better,” Murphy declares, standing at the edge of the bar with the music blaring. “If we were going to grade things.”  
  
“We weren’t,” Bellamy mutters at the same time Clarke says, “yeah, mine was definitely better.”

He gapes at her. 

“What? I had slightly better stories because mine weren’t through the veil of overprotective sibling-like parent.”  
  
“That’s not to say yours was bad, Bell,” Harper adds. Most of the words sound like one, giant word. “Just that—you know, it was—”   
  
“—Parental,” Clarke grins. “And that’s not your fault. We did do a bunch of stuff that totally messed with your blood pressure when we were younger.”

Jasper’s eyes go wide. “Like what, exactly?”

“Aside from what I already brought up in my crowd-favorite speech which absolutely makes me the better Maid of Honor?”  
  
“I was not trying to be the Maid of Honor,” Bellamy argues. “And this was not a competition, Princess. This is a wedding.”   
  
“Were you telling me that?”   
  
“That’s more points for Clarke,” Monty says. 

“There are no points,” Bellamy cries, voice rising despite his best intentions and more than a few of the people who’d been on Lincoln’s side of the aisle glance their direction. They all stare at their shoes. 

“I don’t think they’re looking anymore,” Jasper mumbles. “Shit do you think they practice that stuff or it’s all natural?”  
  
“I think Bell’s got to learn to control the volume of his voice,” Murphy says. “And I’m still waiting to be scandalized by little Griffin.”   
  
Clarke gags. “Do not ever call me that again.”   
  
He taps his wrist — there’s no watch there. 

“We had a house party one time when we were in high school,” Bellamy says. “The good doctor Griffin and husband went on vacation to—where was it?”  
  
Clarke’s eyes narrow, but one side of her mouth tugs up and he figures that’s got to count for something. Points, maybe. “They went on a two-week venture to some all-inclusive at an island I genuinely can’t remember anymore. Marcus asked if I wanted to go, but I couldn’t come up with anything I wanted to do less when I was fifteen and so we figured we’d take advantage.”   
  
“Advantage,” Monty echoes in something that sounds like equal parts disbelief and the general sense of being impressed. 

Clarke shrugs. “It was a big house. I was kind of popular. Bell was older and had his own friends because he played lacrosse, so—”  
  
“—I live in want of lax bro Bellamy Blake stories,” Jasper cuts in.

“You might have to get used to disappointment, then,” Bellamy says. 

“Were you trying to kind of quote things?”  
  
“You want to hear the story or not?” Clarke snaps. Jasper salutes. “So we invited a bunch of people who invited more people and it was every cliché you could come up with. Broken stuff, shitty alcohol, people making out in closets.”   
  
“Did you make out in a closet? Your parents closet?”   
  
“Don’t be an idiot. I played spin the bottle.”

Jasper nearly chokes. Monty’s eyes bug and Emori has to clap Murphy on the back when it appears he’s very close to dying. Bellamy doesn’t move. 

He knows how this story ends. The memories of that party have grown a little fuzzy over the years, but certain parts stick out more than others, and it might have been the first time he ever got drunk. Marcus had a very impressive liquor cabinet. 

“Who’d you kiss? Who’d you kiss? Who’d you kiss?” Jasper chants, nearly vibrating with excitement. 

“Steady on,” Harper chides. He doesn’t stop. He stares at Clarke, whose eyes probably, absolutely, _definitely_ do not flicker in Bellamy’s direction and he’s not sure why it is, but the sense of dread that’s rather suddenly appeared in the pit of his stomach is surprising. 

And uncomfortable. 

“Don’t kiss and tell,” Clarke says. 

“You’re nearly thirty! We’ve crossed the statute of limitations on that one, don’t you think?”

Clarke shakes her head. 

“God, that’s so dumb,” Jasper sighs. “You tease us with these scandals and—”  
  
“—Are kissing teenagers a scandal?” Bellamy interrupts. “Seems pretty par for the course.”   
  
“And where were you during this spin the bottle session?” 

He groans. “It’s not my anecdote. All I really remember of that is that the good doctor Griffin was pissed and I had to sneak into Clarke’s room for a month after so we could talk.”

It’s obviously the wrong thing to say — another round of less-than-dignified noises and pointed glares and Octavia actually stops dancing so she can wave her hands at them in frustration. 

Clarke’s very preoccupied with her shoes again. 

“Whatever,” Bellamy hisses. “You guys are all idiots. There was no speech competition and I had good stories and people laughed, so. Also, you’ve got to stop bringing up the distinct lack of parents. It’s going to ruin O’s master plan at deceiving Intimidating-Indra.”  
  
“Oh, that’s a good name,” Clarke says, pulling her gaze up so she can adjust his tie again and maybe he’ll just take it off at some point. 

Maybe she’ll just take it off at some point. 

He’s way off the dangerous path. Now he’s falling off some kind of dangerous cliff with exceptionally sharp rocks on the bottom and—  
“I love this song,” Harper announces, already reaching for Clarke and she’s barely got enough time to flash him a smile before she’s moving and dancing and Murphy steps on Bellamy’s left shoe. Hard. 

“So,” he drawls, “scale of one to ten. How fucked are you?”  
  
Bellamy rolls his head — a purposeful disregard that clearly doesn’t work when Murphy actually has the gall to grin at him. “Negative one-billion.”

“Yeah, practice that in the mirror or something.”  
  
“How come you’re not dancing with your girlfriend?”   
  
“How come you haven’t told Clarke you want her to be your girlfriend?”

“We are doing this for Octavia.”  
  
“Seriously it’s so bad. You suck at this, you know that?”   
  
“Unless we’re talking about obviously flirting with Clarke,” Miller adds. “Then you’re top-notch, definitely winning the competition.”   
  
Jasper clicks his tongue. “Eh, she’s pretty good at flirting back.”   
  
Whatever’s sitting in Bellamy’s stomach rises up his throat — where it stops abruptly and sits, making it difficult to breathe or argue with his friends and he doesn’t really want to argue with his friends, but several things are starting to feel a little suspect and his gaze keeps darting back to Clarke. Like magnets. 

Or how much he’d really like to kiss her again. 

He can’t believe he kissed her. 

He can’t believe it took him that long. 

He really should have kissed her on the mouth. 

“Look at him,” Monty chuckles, leaning over the counter to nod at the bartender and pull the line of shot glasses closer. “It’s like watching an exercise in pining stupidity.”  
  
Bellamy scoffs at the same time both Murphy and Miller make noises in the back of their throats. “It’s not your best work,” Miller mumbles. 

“It’s because I’ve got priorities and I know that—”  
  
“—Shots,” Murphy interrupts sharply, Monty noticeably swallowing when he realizes what he was about to say. Bellamy’s starting to wonder if he’s more drunk than he thought. “Here,” Murphy adds, shoving a glass at Bellamy’s hand. “We’re doing shots. That’s—that’s what we’re doing. Right now.”   
  
“Really sold that,” Bellamy mutters, but he does as instructed, alcohol burning his throat and possibly melting that lump and it’s much easier to smile when Clarke comes back, a little out of breath when she curls herself against his side. 

She doesn’t leave much after that. 

There’s another round of shots and more pictures, Bellamy’s smile coming easier the longer Clarke’s arm stays wrapped around his middle. She doesn’t ever take her heels off, but there’s still a distinct height-difference and _they’re supposed to be a couple_ so the half a dozen kisses pressed to the side of his shoulder probably don’t mean much more than playing into the role, but Bellamy still manages to document each one on that list he absolutely, definitely is not making. Especially when they introduce themselves to Lincoln’s side of the seating arrangement, passably interested expressions and _oh, it’s nice to meet you_ and _Octavia’s told us so much about you_. 

No one actually asks them how they met. 

And Clarke definitely sniffles during Octavia and Lincoln’s first dance, which isn’t technically accurate since they’ve been dancing for hours already, but it makes Bellamy’s heart stutter all over again, stumbling over himself and his feelings and, if asked, he will blame what happens next on that one, exact feeling. 

“You want to dance?”

Clarke’s lips twist up — not quite a smile, but maybe surprise and that’s not all that great. They danced at prom. This should not be unheard of. 

She nods. “Yeah, I’d love that.”  
  
“Ok, that’s—” Bellamy holds his hand out, a desperate attempt to save face when words continue to prove a certain type of challenge and Clarke’s hand is warm and impossibly small when it rests on his palm. 

She squeezes her fingers. 

“Yeah, that’s,” she laughs. “Come on, this is a good song.”  
  
Bellamy couldn’t care less about the song. It’s all he can do to get one foot in front of the other, several different neurons in his brain short-circuiting when Clarke tugs him towards the floor and loops her arms over his shoulders and she’s close enough that he briefly wonders if it’s actually possible for him to self combust. 

That would also probably annoy Octavia. 

Finding a rhythm isn’t hard, which probably doesn’t mean anything _at all_ , Bellamy’s fingers dragging up and down the line of Clarke’s spine until her eyelashes flutter and her head drops again, as if she’s trying to breathe him in. 

She steps on his right shoe. 

Like she’s doing her best to share the same space as him. 

He kind of wishes she’d do it again. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an exceptional dancer, Princess?”

Clarke sticks her tongue out. “That’s not fair. You’re—I’m not used to slow dancing and this is—”  
  
“—A romantic song?”   
  
“Is it?”   
  
Bellamy hums, cheek brushing the side of her head. He wonders where she buys her shampoo. It must be expensive if the smell is that potent. Or maybe he’s just looking for it. 

Maybe he’s constantly looking for her. 

Also romantic. 

“This is a wedding,” Bellamy reasons.   
  
“That’s true. And we are—it’s not the worst date I’ve ever been on.”   
  
“What’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?”   
  
“Please,” Clarke scoffs. “You know the answer.”   
  
He nods, lips grazing her forehead on more instinct and an even greater amount of want. She scrunches her nose. “Well,” Bellamy drawls, “I can at least guarantee that the secret girlfriend from my hometown won’t turn up in the middle of this.”   
  
“That definitely earns you some points.”   
  
“Should have gotten you a corsage, though.”

Clarke laughs, hand drifting up his neck until it’s half an inch from his hair and that’s only kind of a problem. Where the problem is actually wonderful. “Next wedding we pretend to date at. Monty and Harper, for sure.”  
  
“No, no, no, Murphy’s got a ring hidden in his sock drawer.”   
  
“No shit!”

She clamps her lips together, swallowing back her laugh because she’d practically screamed that and Bellamy is having a difficult time coping. Just, like in general. “You are God awful at covert, you know that?”  
  
“When did he buy a ring?”   
  
“Nope, nope, nope," Bellamy says. "I was sworn to best man secrecy.”   
  
“You are not going to be the best man at that wedding.”   
  
“Guess you’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?” Bellamy asks, Clarke’s shoulders starting to shake. “And then you can be my plus-one to that one too.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
She can’t possibly mean it to sound the way it does. Soft and hopeful and...inevitable. Bellamy nods. “On some indefinite scale.”

“Ok,” Clarke nods, like she’s agreeing or possibly convincing herself. “Is it weird that no one’s actually asked for any background information on our fake relationship, though?”

“It wouldn’t entirely surprise me if Octavia had exaggerated Intimidating-Indra’s opinion on us.”  
  
“You’re really committed to the nickname, aren’t you?”   
  
“And we haven’t actually talked to her yet.”   
  
“But that’s the thing I can’t get,” Clarke presses. “I mean—O kept talking like this was absolutely going to happen and we had to do this to make sure her in-laws didn’t rise up in revolt or challenge us all to a duel or something.”   
  
“I’m not sure I’m prepared for a duel.”   
  
“Well, that’s because you’re drunk.”   
  
“Nah,” Bellamy objects, and it’s only kind of true, but he’s certain he can feel the alcohol disappearing the longer he stares at Clarke. “Aren’t you having fun?”   
  
“Of course I am.”   
  
“Then, what’s the—”   
  
She doesn’t let him get the rest of the words out, reaching a hand up to tug on his tie until the knot loosens. He exhales. He hadn’t been holding his breath. 

“You know,” Clarke says slowly, “nothing we’ve said so for has really been a lie.”

Bellamy’s mouth drops, more air rushing out of him. He blinks and blinks again, but the scene doesn’t change and Clarke is still there and they are, somehow, still dancing. She tugs again, fabric giving way under her touch, which probably isn’t a metaphor, but Bellamy is at least still a little buzzed. 

“Yeah, that’s true,” he whispers. 

“So, that’s…”

Clarke is still holding his tie. 

And the song doesn’t last forever, probably because it can’t, the final few notes sounding like they echo in the center of his soul. It’s an impossibly melodramatic thought, Clarke’s soft sigh louder than it should be and the muscles in Bellamy’s cheeks are starting to ache a bit. 

Everything seems to freeze for a moment — standing on the edge of that cliff he’s managed to get back to, just trying to stay balanced and Bellamy doesn’t move at first. Because Clarke is moving, back into his space with her arms suddenly under his and her mouth on his and Bellamy feels himself gasp. 

It’s a ridiculous reaction. 

His eyes have closed. Even more ridiculous. 

And it still takes him a moment for his brain to catch up with what’s going on, stumbling half a step backwards, which is dumb, dumb, _dumb_. Honestly, it’s so goddamn dumb. He’s kissed Clarke more times than he can count now, has absolutely fallen head over heels into the deep end of everything that has to do with her and them and this, but the way her head tilts and her lips move feels like something entirely...brand new. 

That’s unexpected. 

It’s goddamn perfect is what it is, really. 

Clarke pulls away, breathing a bit heavier than normal, and Bellamy doesn’t bother opening his eyes, just leans closer, chasing after her. His hand comes up, cups her cheek so his thumb can brush across her skin and his fingers can find their way into her hair and their rhythm is a little different now. Her fingers curl into the back of his jacket, rocking against each other like they’re not standing in the middle of a dance floor or a wedding reception Octavia has been planning for months, making out like teenagers and—

“Oh, fuck,” Clarke breathes, eyes wide and shoulders heaving. 

Someone whistles. 

It’s absolutely Jasper. 

Clarke takes another step back, but her fingers graze his forearms and Bellamy’s head is spinning. Metaphorically, literally. Possibly off its axis. Because, really, Clarke’s always been the center of everything, as soon as he saw her, and he’s more than willing to just circle around her and he should have told her that before and he still wants to tell her that 

On some indefinite scale. 

“That was—” Bellamy says, but Clarke is already shaking her head and taking another step back and his stomach might just fall on the floor. With his heart. 

Directly at her feet. 

“God, I’m such an idiot,” Clarke mumbles. “I shouldn’t have—”  
  
“—No, no, Clarke, c’mon. Just—” 

People are staring. Bellamy can feel their eyes boring into the side of his head and the back of his jacket, no doubt rumpled from Clarke’s fingers and even without a variety of internal organs the racing in his veins is oddly pleasant. 

“I’m going to get some air.”

She spins on her heels, a flash of blue and gold and Bellamy doesn’t move. He’s not sure he can, really. His legs feel like stone and Jello, all at the same time, breathing erratically like his lungs have stopped working and—  
  
“Your sister did say you two were probably going to get married next.”

It is a miracle he doesn’t die. Right there. In the middle of Octavia’s wedding reception. Bellamy turns slowly, far too aware of the overall state of his knees and the metaphorical organs still on the floor, a woman he can only assume is Indra almost smiling at him. 

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Bellamy rasps. 

It’s definitely Indra. And she’s definitely smiling. “Your sister,” she repeats. “Said you and your girlfriend were bound to get married next if you’d—” She tilts her head. “—I can’t remember the exact wording, something along the lines of getting your shit together.”

Bellamy hopes eventually he’ll come with a better reaction than just blinking. 

He can barely do that. 

And Indra’s laugh soars out of her, even when her head falls back. “Oh, it was a trick, wasn’t it?”  
  
His lungs are collapsing.

Maybe that’s just Bellamy. And his fucked up knees. 

“I’ve only heard stories of Octavia’s older brother and his girlfriend. Of how you two grew up together and it was about time and—” Indra stops laughing, staring intently at Bellamy who still can’t seem to remember a single goddamn word. “She told us you two had been together for years. Is that not true?”  
  
He shakes his head, only for that to quickly become a nod and a shrug and someone’s hand lands on his shoulder, mumbling an excuse and pulling Bellamy out of the middle of the dance floor while Octavia keeps casting cautious glances his way. 

“You cannot murder your sister on her wedding day,” Murphy says reasonably. Bellamy isn’t interested in reasonable. 

“She planned this.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“Did you know that?”   
  
“Yuh huh.” Someone’s going to have to study Bellamy’s lungs. And their ability to retain extra oxygen specifically so he can exhale as dramatically as possible. “Stop making that noise,” Murphy says “People are staring and you already drew enough of a crowd with the making out. Also, you guys suck at this.”   
  
“At making out?”   
  
“At acting like you haven’t been hooking up for years.”

Bellamy doesn’t sit, so much as he falls into the nearest chair, grabbing the closest glass and whatever alcohol is in it. He shivers. Murphy almost looks apologetic. And then he keeps talking. “It’s genuinely been insulting. This whole time. With the acting like you were ever into other people and you’ve got to stop believing that the back of the bar has any covering.”  
  
“Are you kidding me?”   
  
“Do I sound like I’m kidding?”   
  
“Fucking hell, that’s—”   
  
“—Yeah,” Murphy says, not able to keep the laughter out of the word. Bellamy glares at him. “Nope, you don’t get to give me that look because I was the first one to see you guys and also because I know you told Clarke about ‘Mori’s ring and because one time I found Clarke’s clothes in your drawer.”   
  
“What the hell were you doing in my drawer?”   
  
“I needed a shirt. That’s not important. The important thing is that you guys are idiots and should be dating and O came up with this admittedly stupid idea to prove that. So, stop plotting your sister’s murder—”   
  
“—On her wedding day,” Octavia cries, twisted around Lincoln. “Where’s your tie, Bell?”   
  
Murphy’s laugh is the single most obnoxious sound Bellamy has ever heard. Tied with the sounds the rest of their friends are making and he’s standing. And walking. Running, really — sprinting out of the hall and almost immediately skidding to a stop because she hadn’t gotten that far, sitting a few feet away with her legs tugged up and her heels next to her. 

She’s holding his tie. 

Bellamy takes slow steps, rocking forward when he’s directly opposite Clarke’s feet and her eyes flicker up almost automatically. 

He smiles. 

“You wouldn’t do it,” she says, and that’s not the last thing he expects her to say, but no it’s definitely the last thing. 

“What?”

“Wouldn’t do it. I—O was definitely in the closet and you’d been pissed about that, but you were pretty deep in on Marcus’ scotch supply and—” Clarke’s tongue finds the front of her teeth, shoulders dropping when she huffs softly. “—I’m still pretty positive that’s why you even agreed to play, but then the bottle spun and it landed on you and you were supposed to kiss me and you wouldn’t do it.”

He sits down. He can’t possibly stand up anymore, resting most of his weight on his knees so his hands can find Clarke’s and her thumb starts drawing half circles on the back of his wrist. “I was super mad,” she continues, “because I—well, you were you Bell. My best friend's older brother and you were smart and stupid good looking.”  
  
“I’m sorry, stupid good looking?”   
  
“No, I take it back.” He lets out a shaky laugh, nosing at her cheek like that’s something he can do. Clarke’s thumb keeps moving. “And I really, really wanted to kiss you,” she says, “but you didn’t want to and I—God, that was the worst. I was so pissed, except then you offered to help clean up after everyone else left and I—”   
  
“—Fell asleep with your head on my shoulder,” Bellamy finishes. “Only woke up when your mom called and your phone had that stupid ringtone.”

“It was cool to have ringtones then.”  
  
He hums, letting his mouth drag across the side of her jaw and just under her ear until she shivers and he can’t help but smile against her skin. “You’ve got to know why I did that.”   
  
“Search me.”   
  
“Are you serious?”   
  
Clarke nods, head bumping against the wall in the process and she hisses when it hits again, Bellamy’s thumb finding the bottom of her chin. It feels important that she looks at him when he says it. And that she’s not inadvertently concussed. 

She’d know the symptoms of a concussion better than he would. 

“I love you,” he says, and it’s nice to know how easy those words come. 

Even when Clarke’s eyes go glossy. She’s still holding his tie. “What?” she breathes.   
  
“It’s disappointing that wasn’t more obvious.”   
  
“I’m going to punch you.”   
  
“That might ruin this, honestly.”   
  
“Are you kidding me?” Clarke demands, Bellamy nodding quickly. 

“I also think you’re stupid good looking. And, uh—I really, really wanted to kiss you when I was sixteen too. Like, it’s ridiculous how often I thought about kissing you.”  
  
“So why didn’t you? The bottle landed on you!”   
  
“Yeah, but—” His cheeks flush, heat rushing up his spine and forcing his eyes away from hers. Clarke gasps, a quiet _oh_ that still manages to bounce off the walls of the otherwise abandoned hallway. “Don’t do that,” he mumbles. “It sounds ridiculous.”   
  
“Say it out loud, then.”

Bellamy has to lick his lips before he does, something like confidence blooming in his chest when Clarke’s gaze drops. “I love you,” he says again. “And I have forever. I—I think I loved you before I even realized what that meant. So, it...kissing you on some quasi dare because a Barcadi bottle landed on me wasn’t really my worst nightmare, but I couldn't—”  
  
“—You are frustratingly gallant, you know that?”   
  
“I wanted it to be good. Better than good.” He has to duck his head to stay in her eye line, fingers back in her hair and Clarke turning her head to kiss the inside of his wrist is some kind of world-altering something. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that.”   
  
“But.”   
  
“But?”   
  
“But I’m not sure roommates with benefits really goes along with your code of honor. Also it was a Smirnoff bottle, get your facts straight.”

He can’t do anything except kiss her — surging up and tugging her lip between his teeth because he’s had enough of the opposite to last him several lifetimes, and Clarke’s leg is dangerously close to straddling him. “Yeah,” Bellamy admits, not bothering to pull away from her, “you might have broken my resolve a little, Princess.”

Clarke’s answering laugh circles both of them, settles in Bellamy’s bloodstream and jumpstarts his heart, all the more impressive since until that very second he was fairly positive it had likely been trampled on the dance floor, but then—“I love you an absolutely ridiculous amount,” she says. “It’s driving me crazy.”  
  
“That doesn’t seem all that positive.”   
  
“You’re a way better kisser than I thought you’d have been when I was fifteen.”   
  
“Yeah, well, you’re fun to practice on.”

“Jeez.”

Bellamy nips at her lip again, another laugh and more roaming hands and he probably can’t hear his tie fall on the floor, but it’s nice to imagine. If only for romance sake. “I just figured,” Clarke adds, “if this was all I was going to get, then it’d—I really did not put up much of a fight when O told me we had to do this.”  
  
“I totally asked you to prom because I wanted to. It didn’t have anything to do with idiot Atom.”

“She’s married to someone else, you don’t have to hold onto this hatred of Atom.”  
  
“Did you miss the other part of that sentence, or…”

“No, I didn’t miss it. The flowers from that corsage are still in my nightstand drawer.”  
  
She’s blushing when Bellamy pulls back, disbelief on his face and what feels like the start of everything else stretching out around them. “So, on a scale of one to five billion, how dumb do you think we were?”   
  
“Did everyone know?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“And none of Lincoln’s family cared about us dating? Or living together?”   
  
“Also yeah on both fronts,” Bellamy nods. “Also I’d like to date you.”   
  
“I think we might have been,” Clarke admits. “Just—without the fun parts of kissing in public.”   
  
“Well, apparently we’re really bad at doing it in secret, so might be fun to try the other way.”

She laughs. That laugh. The one he’s coveted and thought about more than any single person should think about any single sound and—

Clarke kisses him. It’s absolutely, goddamn perfect. 

“I love you,” she says again, not that he’s counting. He’s totally counting. And so is she. “Now we’re even again.”  
  
“It’s not a competition, Princess.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” Bellamy echoes, pulling her up when he stands. “You want to dance some more? Maybe scandalize some in-laws?”   
  
“We’re actually dating now, though.”   
  
His smile threatens to tarnish several gilded mirrors hanging on the walls. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

And they do spend most of the night kissing, neither one of them remembering that Clarke never bothered to pick up his tie until the rest of their clothes are being discarded in a hotel room that didn’t actually need those two double beds. But it’s easier to throw the clothes on the extra one, and the bedsprings don’t squeak, even when Clarke flips on her side, head resting on Bellamy’s chest when they fall asleep. 

Murphy doesn’t bother sending them two invitations six months later, just shoves the envelope into Bellamy’s arm when they’re waiting at the end of the bar for their drinks. 

“You suck, you know that, right?” Murphy demands. 

Bellamy shrugs, glancing over his shoulder when he hears Clarke laugh, holding her left hand out for everyone to see. The light definitely reflects off her ring. “Eh,” Bellamy says. “I think I’ll live."

**Author's Note:**

> By my final count there were something like half a dozen tropes crammed into this silly story that I had no intention of writing. But still a story that I am very glad you guys clicked on and read. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down, where I'm probably shouting about Bellamy Blake's curls, the space pirate AU that's been bouncing around my brain, and how much I miss sports.


End file.
